


Mr. Ackles, Jensen, Jenny, Jen

by rei_c



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Aftermath, Alternate Universe, Community: spn-masquerade, Experimental Style, For Me, Hoodoo, M/M, POV Second Person, Serial Killers, Stalking, Voodoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-06-09 18:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6918223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Jensen is a witch in New Orleans, selling spells and artifacts out of his little shop. Jared is a customer who comes in, looking for some serious dark magic. It turns out Jared likes to murder tourists and is looking for something to help cover his tracks. Jensen is more than willing to help out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Ackles, Jensen, Jenny, Jen

You move to the Marigny six months after Katrina. It's always been a dream of yours to live in New Orleans and land is cheap right now, whether or not the house on it is still standing or should be razed to the ground. You find a cute little double shotgun off Dauphine for a decent price; there's water damage, sure, and the carpets and woodwork need to be replaced, but you've always been good with your hands and you have time to spare. 

You keep your head down for a year, focus on getting the house up to standards - both sides of the house meeting your particular needs - and learning your new city. It's everything you ever imagined: the bookshops are quirky and unique, each with their own charms; the bars and cafes have more character than half the people you've met outside of this city; the people all start off pleasant but distrustful but the longer you're here, the more help you are to your neighbours, the more money you spend on things like red beans and zydeco records and tile, the more they warm up to you. 

Two years on, you're practically one of them. Everyone knows you. Everyone trusts you. And no one would ever suspect you of anything other than a charming amount of clumsiness and a wide, beaming smile framed with dimples. 

It's just the way you like it. 

\

You start hearing stories about Jensen Ackles almost immediately after moving to the city but they're just a swell under the base, animal mind of New Orleans. The longer you're here, though, the more those stories and tales start to drift up to the surface, and once you've been here for a year, people start talking. You've cultivated exactly the kind of reputation that lends itself to listening, a friendly ear all-too-willing to believe, an outsider who wants nothing more than to belong like a native, someone who's easy with the beers on long summer nights and free with the bourbon when the weather turns cold and damp. 

There seem to be three crowds, each with its own separate view of the man, and you find that intriguing. He's been able to lead three distinct lives, is known very differently in three very distinct circles, and that piques your curiosity even before you find out the details of Jensen Ackles. 

The first: Mr. Ackles, who frequents the bookstores and has an appreciation for first editions of early 20th century American fiction. He drinks chicory coffee, possesses unfailingly polished manners, and rarely says a word more than polite greetings or questions as to his purchases and requests. The old New Orleans matrons are charmed by him and no one has a bad word to say about shy, proper Mr. Ackles.

The second: Jenny, who makes a round of his favorite blues and jazz clubs late at night, sometimes sings at them, with a rasping, whiskey-furred voice. He downs shots like water, has a crude vocabulary and an even raunchier sense of humour, and word in the bars is that Jenny once had the chance to go pro - at least more pro than he is now - but turned it down to stay in New Orleans, to cameo every so often, to hang out with his friends and drinking buddies and make dick jokes like they're going out of style. 

The third: Jensen, who has a back room in the little ramshackle odds-and-ends shop he owns, who deals in things like blood and chicken bones, who can write a spell or make a gris-gris that works without hesitating. He has a thin but steady stream of customers, all who fear him like something intangible, following them, haunting them, but continue to go back to him because the things he can do, they're impossible for anyone else. 

You were intrigued by Mr. Ackles, won over by Jenny, but Jensen - that's who's caught your attention. He's the one you need. 

\

It takes a few months, a few gently-worded questions to the right people, a few comments dropped in the right ears, to get you the password for the back room. You've been to the shop before once or twice, even bought a cast-iron kettle there a few weeks back, and you remember meeting Jensen's eyes, the verdant moss-green of them, seeing the pulse jump in his neck and feeling your own heartbeat speed up in response. Your hands touched, briefly, when you handed over the cash and his skin was warm and dry. He'd flinched from you, eyes narrowing and focused like pinpricks on you, and you wondered what he'd seen, what he'd felt. Now, though, with the password, you think you can ask. 

It's a Thursday when you go to see him, rain in the air with all the humidity but not actually raining, everything fogged over and the stench of the Mississippi drifting into the Quarter like it's moving in to stay. You wait until the early afternoon, when most of the city is either returning from lunch or just waking up, and the bell on the door rings once, twice, when you open it and walk through. Jensen's at the counter, book in his hands, reading glasses perched low on his nose, and his shoulders tense when you step inside his shop even though he doesn't look up. 

"Afternoon," he says, mildly. "How's the kettle working out?" 

He still hasn't looked at you. 

You smile, can feel the grin eating up the facade of friendly harmlessness you've perfected and wear like a second face. "Does the Queen send her greetings?" you ask. 

Jensen looks up at you, eyes veiled, the expression on his face impossible to read, even for someone like you. "So," he says, and sets the book down without marking his page. "It took longer than I thought." 

"I've been a little busy recently," you say. "But I apologize for being late." 

"I take it you want protection," Jensen says. "Or invulnerability?" 

The beat of his heart is steady, as is his voice, but his fingers are digging into his jeans, knuckles going white and the skin under his nails turning blue with the pressure. He has such wonderful hands; you expected nothing less from Jenny, who can strum a guitar like it's his lover, but you had thought that maybe that aspect of him would remain with Jenny. Perhaps he's bleeding through at the sight of you. Perhaps you'll be the one to unite every aspect of his three separate lives and give him a certain amount of freedom to simply be. You find you like that idea. 

"Actually," you say, "I had thought we might start out with more of a business arrangement." You reach into the satchel you've got slung over one shoulder, see him tense in anticipation of anything, and can't stop the crocodile smile from settling on your mouth. You pull out two Tupperware containers, small, tightly sealed, sloshing as you set them down on the counter. 

Jensen looks at them, looks at you, and says, "Pick those up and come with me. Let's talk." 

\

The back room is clean but there's a creeping sense of rusted metal and blood oozing from every corner. There are shadows on the walls that seem to move, a full shelf of jars and canisters filled with everything from still-living spiders to what looks like a pickled pig's fetus, from feathers that move in a breeze you can't feel to a collection of teeth that make you laugh when you see them. 

"Children," you say, when Jensen raises an eyebrow in question at you. "Are you the tooth fairy as well?" 

"In a manner of speaking," Jensen says. "Now, let me see what you've brought." 

You set the containers down on the workbench Jensen's standing in front of, push them over to him. Jensen takes the lid off the top container, leans down and inhales deeply, eyes closing. "Female, early twenties," he says. "That the one all over the news about three months ago?" You nod and Jensen smells again, looks vaguely impressed. "How'd you keep it so fresh?" 

"Trade secret," you say. 

Jensen looks at you, then, skeptical, and says, "I never knew serial killers met up and exchanged tips." 

You can't help but laugh. "I've never been called a serial killer before," you tell him. "It's sort of nice to have someone see through the mask before I've got them tied down and close to death." 

You're not lying, either. There's a certain rush that comes from knowing that someone can see you, down to bone and breath, what makes you live, what you yearn for every second of every day. Oh, you've been careful since you came here, it never does well to turn one's own back yard into one's hunting grounds, but there's something about snatching away a person and then stealing the very life from them in New Orleans, something you've never felt anywhere else. It's heady, addictive, and you've had to draw on all your self-control and willpower these last few months to keep from losing yourself and going mad with bloodlust. 

Jensen licks his lips, looks at you as if he can follow the trail of your thoughts. For all you know, out of everything people have said about Jensen, perhaps he can. 

He holds your gaze for a long moment that stretches out the way summer afternoons do, here in New Orleans, then looks back at the Tupperware of blood. He reaches out, dips his finger in the viscous liquid, stirs just a little, then brings the finger, dripping crimson, up to his mouth. You watch, entranced, as he sucks his finger clean, eyes closing at the taste of the blood. After a moment, his opens, wide, and he asks, "How the fuck did you find a virgin?" 

Oh, but the man in front of you may already have you under a spell, as fascinated by him you are, by the way you meet his incredulous eyes and can't help but sigh. You step close to him, lift a hand, trace the curve of his cheekbones and the elegant line of his jaw, feeling the stubble under the pads of your fingers, so intimately feeling the way his breath hitches at your touch and the look in his eyes turns heavy, dark and full of lust like Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras, reckless abandon and wild need, anticipation and drunken joy. 

"You'll find," you say, "that I am quite good at what I do, even beyond avoiding notice." 

Jensen lets out a ragged breath, blinks and lets his eyelids hover downwards a moment longer than normal, showing off the play of his eyelashes against the pale freckled expanse of skin. He leans into your touch, some line of tension in his shoulders dissipating. "I know," he murmurs. "But are you as good at this?" and he slides on the stool, close to you, legs spreading and hands tugging you into the vee of his legs, fingers curling in the waistband of your thin, threadbare jeans. You lean down as he leans up, meet his lips with your own, and he's hot and wet and oh-so-pliant as you kiss. He tastes of chicory and jasmine, of blood and powdered bone, of something rich that bleeds intoxicating power. You wonder what you taste like to him. 

"Death," he murmurs, when you break apart, answering a question you hadn't asked out loud. "And sugar. You feel like St. Louis Number One on a moonless midnight and a wild run across Canal when all the lights are green and it's raining."

"Is that good?" you ask. 

He moves one hand, draws his fingers across the bulge in your jeans. "Very," he breathes. You're curious to see what he does next, whether he gives in to the heat lurking in his voice like some dark predator in the night or pulls himself back from the edge, uses Mr. Ackles to help. He shudders, just a little, and steels himself, squares his shoulders. You can't help the crooked smile as you see it. 

"Let's talk business," he says, and a corner of his lips quirks up when he adds, "before we get to pleasure. What are you offering?" 

"Whatever you need," you tell him, and brush some loose tendrils of hair behind your ear. His eyes track the movement; he bites his bottom lip. "Blood, bone, organs, meat. The joy's in the hunt and the kill; they're nothing but a hindrance once they're dead." 

His eyes gleam. "I'm keeping these," and he touches the Tupperware lightly. "And I'll take anything you're willing to give." 

You're still in his space but you lean closer, if such a thing is possible, the outside of your thighs brushing the inside of his. "I am willing to give you everything," you murmur. "Whatever you ask for. But who will you be when we fuck? Jensen back here, doing business, fine, but which name am I screaming when I come?"

Jensen stares, swallows over what you hope is a dry throat. You're not usually so forward with your intentions, sexual or otherwise, but Jensen is something different - many somethings, perhaps. 

"You're fascinated by that," Jensen says, as if he's just realized, as if your clumsy flirtation had distracted him when you've seen the speed at which his mind works. He thinks for a moment, absently putting his fingers in your jeans' pockets, thumbs dangerously close to the zip. "Names have power," he finally says. "For me, more than most. You can call me Jen," he says, as though he didn't expect the question, has just pulled up an answer from the base of his spine. "All the best of all of me, both who I am and in the kind of gift I can offer you." 

"Jen," you say, tasting the name on your tongue, swallowing down the tantalizing syllable that this man - so brilliantly divided, so perfectly hidden, every breath a masquerade - has given you. He speaks of gifts, of offerings, and you think that, yes, this is a good way to begin, both of you so willing to give and give and give when the world would assume you'd do nothing but take with greedy, outstretched, grasping hands. "Nice to meet you." 

He nods, eyes glinting. "You wanna take a gris-gris with you now? Maybe a hex bag against wandering eyes for the sterile half of your house?" 

You laugh, lean down and kiss him again, take his mouth. When you're out of air, when he's panting and his cheeks are flushed around his freckles, you say, "I'll come back later. Tonight. You'll be here?" 

Jen takes you in, all of you, lifts a hand and draws his index finger down from the center of your forehead to your bottom lip, nail digging into the tender, kiss-bruised skin with just a hint of pain. "I will." 

There's a part of you that wants to drop to your knees right now, suck him down and see if the very life of him tastes the way he smells. You won't, though. Tonight offers anticipation, the final sweet surrender of good sense to the low-grade lust you've felt bubbling in your gut since you first connected Mr. Ackles to Jenny, much less Jensen. 

"See you, then," you say, and step back - reluctantly - out of his hold, away from the space between his knees, the space you hope you'll be in tonight and many nights after, the space you'll buy first with your sacrifice of blood and body, both the dead flesh of others and your own tan skin, pink hole, hard dick, before it's yours, before all the space around Jen belongs to you of his own free will. 

It will belong to you. There's no other option. One way or another, Jensen Ackles will be yours and yours alone.

"Yeah," Jen says. 

A thrill of want stings your spine, hearing the agreement with your thought, seeing the surrender already taking over Jen's eyes. You half wonder why he's giving in so easily but you've never questioned luck, just sent out a general prayer of gratitude. Perhaps someone's been listening. 

Jen stands, shows you out of the back room and walks you to the front door. You gaze at his mouth but don't make a move for it; tonight is soon enough. With the door open, Jen lightly pushes you through to the outside, says, "Jared," as you turn, meet his eyes for the last time this afternoon. "Don't be late." 

You never told him your name. "I won't," you say, easy, light. "If I'm not here, call the police." That makes Jen laugh and the sound spirals through you, attaches to the oxygen in your blood and leaves you lightheaded. His laugh is mesmerizing. Jen is mesmerizing. And he's going to be yours. "Tonight," you say, again, and nod your head in leaving, stealing one last glimpse of him - and then the door shuts lightly behind you as you disappear into the Quarter.


End file.
